The Progression of Affection
by NotxAfraid
Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves changing together, a positive correlation between number of interactions and amount of affection exhibited. Simple JohnLock super fluff oneshot. Little glimpses of their relationship which get longer as the chapter goes on. Written because I hate the way other people write JohnLock. I know, I'm a cheeky one. Rated T for ONE word.


**The Progression of Affection**

Sherlock has always liked the looks that he shares with John—he feels like someone finally _gets it._ Someone finally gets _him_. These looks occur for any reason, at any time, and always imply understanding. They happen in the middle of crime scenes, over a corpse, or in the flat after a comment about Mycroft, Lestrade, a case, or anything, really…

Sherlock is well aware that these looks have gotten longer since they first met, and have included more smiling, but is uncertain as to why. He counts ten full seconds during one of these moments, and decides to conduct an experiment. He finds that other people think such extended periods of eye contact uncomfortable, even after they drop their gazes. This anxiety increases when he smiles at them. Sherlock decides these glances are unique to him and the doctor.

_All the more reason to enjoy those moments with John_, Sherlock concludes.

* * *

Oftentimes when Sherlock and John are sitting together at breakfast or in one of Sherlock's many restaurants, their feet or legs will knock into one another. Neither Sherlock nor John seem to notice, but they also never move away from the touch.

Sherlock often deduces where John's foot is from the way he's sitting and puts his own foot right on top.

When John leaves the table or booth, he always comes back to the exact spot he was before, from head to toe.

Sherlock notices that when Angelo and other, like-minded, servers place candles on the table, John no longer asks that they be sent back, but instead looks at the flame, then to Sherlock, then down at the table.

Sherlock can accurately predict and cue each of these glances in his head, but cannot properly pin down their exact meaning. He only knows that John seems happy, and is therefore happy himself.

* * *

It isn't until Christmas that Sherlock realizes that John hasn't gone on a date in a very long while. Every year before, John has brought a woman round to celebrate the holidays at Baker Street. Sherlock knows that _normal_ people often feel guilty about being "single" during the Christmas season, and has always been disappointed that John fell into this category. But now…

Sherlock thinks back to previous conversations while he plays his annual holiday medley for their guests. He goes back a couple weeks, then a couple more, replaying entire conversations at top speed to find the last indication of John's love life. He finally finds it, noticing the date stamped on the corner of the memory.

John hasn't had a date, or even mentioned a woman in particular, in three months.

Sherlock is shocked he hadn't noticed sooner, but finds himself smiling nonetheless. And halfway through Greensleeves, he and John share another of those curious looks.

John smiles back.

* * *

There are very few times that John solves a case before Sherlock (though Sherlock will point out that John would get nowhere without his previous deductions). On one such case, Sherlock couldn't determine the murder weapon. The victim had bled to death from various, consistent scrapes that covered his body—very gruesome, very time-consuming work.

Sherlock had been telling John that his various experiments in the morgue had yielded no results—none of the knives, keys, cheese graters, sandpapers, bricks, or even forks had created the same scraping patterns—when John stopped him to ask who he had experimented on. None too pleased with the answer "Mr. Doe," John began berating Sherlock about respecting the dead, whether or not they have been claimed…until he froze.

John had caught sight of the autopsy photos taped to the wall behind Sherlock and trailed off in the middle of his argument. He stared for a second longer and then ran from the room before Sherlock could make a snide comment about his debating skills. He dashed up the stairs to his bedroom and could be heard moving large trunks and boxes; Sherlock knew he must be at least halfway under his bed and smirked a little at the thought. After a moment, John hustled back down the stairs with a grin on his face and presented Sherlock with an old, dusty, heavy-duty plastic box.

He could see that Sherlock was failing to recognize the box for what it was, so he sat it on the table and opened it, revealing hooks, sinkers, lines, lures…

And a fish scaler.

Sherlock's eyes went from the funny-looking instrument to the photos, back to the scaler, then to John, who was still grinning excitedly at him. Sherlock grinned back, excitement building inside of him. He jumped in the air with a small victory laugh, and grabbed his friend's head. "John! You're bloody brilliant!" and he smashed his face against John's—even making the "mwah!" sound—before running down the stairs, shouting, "We've got him!"

John stood in the living room for a very long second until he heard Sherlock shouting for him. He snapped out of his little daze, and almost skipped down the stairs to meet Sherlock.

* * *

John's heart is pounding as he jogs down the tunnel, and he feels frantic for the first time in years, a great sense of helplessness coming from a knot in his stomach. He hasn't seen Sherlock in days, has been assured by the criminals that he's been left for dead. John feels helpless because he hasn't been running around shooting things; he's been pacing the flat, pacing Lestrade's office, pacing Mycroft's office, and yelling at everyone to _do something_.

But then he spots Sherlock.

He can still hear Lestrade yelling his name from somewhere behind him, the sound bouncing around the walls of the sewer. He can see that one of the armed officers is checking on Sherlock while the others continue securing the area. He can see Sherlock's blood, and can't hear Sherlock's voice.

"_Sherlock!_" He runs so hard, he almost falls over to avoid crashing into the poor man, who is crumpled against the sewer wall. John drops to his knees in front of him and gently kisses Sherlock's bleeding mouth, hands cradling his injured cheeks. "Thank God you're alive," he murmurs, and leans his forehead against Sherlock's, missing the surprised look the detective gives him. He closes his eyes, heaves a great sigh, and then sits back to assess Sherlock. He's been beaten to a pulp, blood caking his nose, lips, and hair. One of Sherlock's eyes has swollen shut, and his torso is shaking from fear, shock, or cold—_or a combination of all three,_ John thinks. He notes that Sherlock is holding his middle, but not too much blood is soaking his shirt; he won't need any medical attention that John can't give himself.

He looks up at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock looks back at John with his one good eye. John brings his left hand up to carefully hold Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock closes his eye and lets out a breath soaked with tension. He tilts his head into John's hand.

"Let's get you home."

* * *

John hears the gunfire from three blocks away and runs toward it. Sherlock, who is talking to one of the homeless, turns to find John gone. He looks both ways down the street and thinks he sees one of John's shoes flash under the streetlamp as it disappears around a corner. He shoves money into the homeless woman's hand and runs after John, shouting his name along the way.

After a minute of hard running, Sherlock spots a crowd of people at the end of the street. _Probability states that's most likely where John is, considering the gunfire_. Sherlock gets to the cluster of bystanders, shoving and pulling, "Move! _Move!"_ to get to the center, where John sits between two bodies: a woman and a small boy. One of the bystanders is pressing John's crumpled jacket into the boy's side while John performs CPR, counting aloud and carefully measuring the breaths he gives the child to avoid damaging his lungs. Sherlock can see the woman is clearly dead, shot in the heart. He can also see that the boy's most likely got a hole in his left lung, based on the wound's location, the blood around his mouth, and the amount of blood soaked into the pavement and into John's jacket.

Sherlock tells the woman assisting John to move and takes over for her. When John finishes his current set of compressions, Sherlock removes the jacket and looks at the wound as John exhales into the boy's mouth. He sees bubbles in the blood, and it oozes out of the wound when John breathes for the boy. He stoops down and listens to the hole, hearing wet gurgling sounds each time John tries to fill the punctured lung with air.

The chances for the boy are less than one percent.

"John," Sherlock says. He gets no response as John checks the boy's pulse and feels for breath. "John," he tries again. Nothing; only more compressions. "_John!"_

"You do CPR until the medics arrive, Sherlock," John says roughly. "Seven, eight, nine, ten…" Sherlock sighs, knowing the boy will not live the remaining five minutes it will take an ambulance to reach this part of London, if the boy is even living now. But Sherlock sits there, holding the jacket firmly in place, listening for sirens and questioning John's well-being. John is the most practical doctor Sherlock has ever known, and his irrational actions and clear distress are worrying.

John never loses steam, and after what feels like a very long time, Sherlock hears the first sounds of an approaching ambulance. Bystanders are still crowded around the four people, and Sherlock yells for them to get out of the way when the ambulance turns down their street. They shuffle awkwardly apart.

When the ambulance stops, the paramedics rush out, and only when one has secured an oxygen mask to the boy and orders John to move does he finally stop his work and sit back, scooting away from the child.

Sherlock announces that the boy has a punctured lung and has lost approximately three pints of blood. He forces himself to say the numbered amount instead of "half"; a boy so small can only hold so much.

They load the boy into the ambulance and call for another to pick up the woman. Sherlock walks over and sits next to the tired doctor on the sidewalk. He stares at John as John stares at the ambulance. Finally, it rolls away, without a single light flashing or siren sounding, taking its time now that it no longer matters. Sherlock knows that something is wrong with John but doesn't become truly worried until John begins to cry, sighing out tears but barely making a sound.

A knot begins to form in Sherlock's stomach as he realizes he doesn't know what to do. He actually starts to panic a bit and quickly searches his mind for information on John and crisis situations, but nothing seems to quite fit this scenario. Looking at John, he knows he must so _something_, so he does what he wants and hopes it is also useful.

He raises his right arm and grips John's shoulder, pulling John tightly against his side. He raises his other arm and laces his fingers together, trapping John in a circle. John turns into Sherlock's shoulder and continues his quiet crying, holding onto Sherlock's coat. After a moment, he speaks very softly, and Sherlock feels the grip on his coat tighten. "Children are always so hard to save." His words are wobbly and a little angry, and it's clear he isn't finished crying yet.

Sherlock feels the knot in his stomach snap taut. He looks down at the sandy head on his shoulder and feels immensely helpless once more. He decides to follow his instincts a second time and places a long kiss on top of John's head. "I am sorry, John." He tightens his grip and holds John for a very, very long time.

* * *

The day after the boy dies, John and Sherlock eat their breakfast at two in the afternoon, since neither of them fell asleep before sunrise. The meal isn't very hearty, though John's glad to see Sherlock eating at all, even if it's only cereal and juice. They have yet to speak since waking, and both find this a peaceful side effect of their exhaustion.

A few bites into his Cinnamon Grahams, Sherlock sees John's right hand twitch for the third time. Sherlock notes that this happens every time he sits _his_ left hand down on the table, a few inches from John's. Surveillance of John's face and body language indicates that he is embarrassed about a potential decision…involving Sherlock's hand?

Sherlock recalls the events of the last night—the small body and the tears seeping into his jacket—and figures that John is still shaken from the ordeal. Sherlock smirks at his food and then pushes his hand forward and holds it off the table a bit, palm up. He doesn't look at John, only stares at his hand, and waits, as he sips his juice. After a couple seconds, John's hand creeps over Sherlock's and grips it tight.

Sherlock squeezes back, and John finally relaxes into their late breakfast.

* * *

It doesn't take long for those around John and Sherlock to note a few peculiar differences.

Molly sees Sherlock smiling more as he works in the lab. They don't half qualify as grins, and aren't even particularly wide, but Molly definitely notices the small upturns at the corners of his mouth. They seem to lighten his whole face, despite their size. She observes that these little curves appear after she asks about John and after most of the texts he receives.

Sherlock actually chuckles after reading one such message, and then looks to Molly, as if realizing he's broken their "quiet while working" rule for no good reason, being one of the few rules he respects. But Molly only smiles at Sherlock to let him know she's happy to see him laugh. To her surprise, he smiles back a little before resolutely turning back to his microscope.

—

Mrs. Hudson begins leaving their morning tea on the table closest to the sofa because of the few times she's found John sleeping on Sherlock's chest while the detective blindly conducts a symphony or moves around his mind palace, taking no notice of the landlady, her tea…or the photos she snaps on her phone.

—

Lestrade notices one change in the consulting detective and wonders if the world wouldn't really be better off without the bastard, because he is thisclose to _murdering_ Sherlock Holmes. The arsehole has been at the crime scene of a triple murder for five minutes and hasn't stopped staring at this phone, texting at light speed. There are three bodies on the floor, and Sherlock isn't seeing any of them.

After saying Sherlock's name for the third time and receiving no response, Lestrade has had enough. He smacks the detective in the back of the head and shouts, "WILL YOU PLEASE _LOOK_ AT THE FUCKING CRIME SCENE?!"

Sherlock stares straight ahead, then glares down at the bodies for a total of one whole second before heaving a great sigh and kneeling beside one of them, the male. He picks up the man's hand, scans it, sniffs it, and drops it back to the floor. He looks up at Lestrade with an irritated, piercing stare. "This man is the killer. You know that he's been shot at point blank range, but what you failed to consider is that he shot himself. You failed to consider this because you failed to notice the very faint hint of gunpowder residue on his hand—it's almost been completely washed away with a ninety percent solution of isopropyl alcohol—but there's a bit left on the webbing between his index and middle fingers, a _vital_ piece of evidence that Anderson missed because he's hungover. Great work ethic, by the way, Philip." Sherlock ignores the scowl that Anderson sends his way and rises to walk over to Lestrade. "Someone else wants credit for this crime scene. They cleaned the killer's hands and took the gun," he spoke in an especially patronizing tone, his nose inches from Lestrade's, "two acts so _simple_ they could literally be done by a _child_. You're not looking for a murderer; you're looking for a liar. This case is not—worth—my—time." With that, he takes another second to glare down at Lestrade before bringing his phone back up, between their faces, and continues to text. He pushes passed the DI to exit the room.

Lestrade takes a beat, then turns and calls into the hallway, "BUT WHO ARE YOU TEXTING?"

"MY BOYFRIEND!"

"…"

The entire room retains its stunned silence for about ten seconds before every single person is either handing over or receiving money. Lestrade lets out a surprised, "huh!" as Anderson begrudgingly slaps fifty pounds into his hand.

* * *

Sherlock and John begin noticing differences in each other as well.

John finds that each time he returns to the flat after a row, the refrigerator is stocked with fresh milk. He uses it to make tea for Sherlock if he's decided to forgive him. Sherlock drinks the tea without question each time.

One of John's favorite changes in Sherlock is his new found need to take John out to eat—only between cases, of course. But it's always the same; John will be doing something in the flat, and Sherlock will come bursting in from the slums or the morgue and announce, "John! We're going out!" It doesn't matter if John is asleep or already eating or in the shower—Sherlock will find him and pester him until he agrees to go out. John is only half angry half the time. Really, he finds it a sweet gesture. Well, as sweet as he'll get out of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock even takes John to places he doesn't particularly like, such as the Thai place in Brixton or the small Mexican joint in Greenwich, or—Sherlock's least favorite—the American burger joint in the centre of London. And Sherlock always manages to eat _something_, even it is only an order of chips or crisps.

It isn't until the third time that John realizes Sherlock is taking him on dates. Honest to God, this-is-what-_normal-_couples-do **dates**. When he realizes this, about to walk into Five Guys, he lets out a surprised laugh and catches the detective's coat collar to pull him into a happy kiss before excitedly opening the door to the restaurant. He hears Sherlock chuckle before walking in behind him.

* * *

Sherlock and John are hiding in the shadows of an old warehouse, crammed between two heating units, decidedly uncomfortable. They've been hidden to listen to the meeting of two powerful officials who have been accepting under-the-table deals from London's largest drug ring. Sherlock is only doing this as a favour to Mycroft, and has been quietly expressing his discontent during the entirety of the stakeout. John has endured pokes, pinches, pulls, squeezes, and even bites since they've sat down. He's been fighting back in his own way, of course, even managing to head butt the damn prat. All this is done silently, of course, until the officials manage to say something truly incriminating.

When the politicians each smugly recite their damning soliloquies, and Sherlock is ready to jump out of his hiding spot, John catches him on the shoulder. Sherlock turns with a glare, about to go on a full tirade, but John simply leans forward to give him a peck before standing up and dashing out of the shadows. Sherlock has no time to be confused before he is shouting at the other men in the room.

—

Sherlock doesn't ask about that strange kiss until a few days later as he's putting on his coat (this is a strategy he uses when he needs to ask John for information so that he can leave before John has a chance to properly make fun of him for not knowing something). "Why did you kiss me before we caught those dirty politicians?" he asks without turning to John.

John laughs a little and looks at Sherlock with a smug expression, deciding whether or not he should pick on him. He sighs, clearly choosing to be nice today, and Sherlock finally turns to face him, scarf in hand. "Because we were about to enter a dangerous situation, and that's what you do."

Sherlock stares at John with his lips pursed, and John knows he is getting angry because he doesn't understand but also doesn't want to admit it. So John sighs again, this time releasing his inhibitions so he can explain fully. "People often like to have their last moments be good ones, and since you and I face danger quite often…" John trails off, knowing this is turning into a sad excuse of an explanation, and hopes that Sherlock is able to put the shoddy pieces together. He starts again, looking at Sherlock as sincerely as he can. "It's what you do when you love someone."

Sherlock freezes, then shuffles his feet as he processes. Finally, after a moment, he seems to accept John's confession and swoops down to kiss him before turning toward the door and throwing his scarf on. Surprised, John asks, "What was that for?"

"I'm about to face immense danger, John!" Sherlock calls as he gallops down the stairs.

John dashes to his feet to follow. "Wait, where are you going?!"

Sherlock turns at the front door of 221B and smirks down at John. "I have to go see my stupid brother," and he closes the door, leaving a grinning doctor behind.

* * *

**Thank you for reading, lovely things! Please PLEASE review (they counteract my middle-of-the-summer feelings of uselessness). :) They also let me know what I need to get better at, so if you're looking at this like, "Ugh, what a horrid story" or, "I FOUND A TYYYYPPOOOOOO" I want YOU, yes YOU, to review. Unless you're going to tell me I changed tenses; I know I did. Just couldn't make that one bit work. Sorry. Also, "thisclose" is intentional. I think it's funny. **

**I should say that I know nothing REAL about medical situations, and I don't know if a fish scaler can REALLY make you die; the only "research" I did for this story was to ask my English friend, Claire, what kind of cereal Sherlock Holmes would eat. Cinnamon Grahams are a real thing.**  
**I care about the important facts, ladies and gentlemen.**

**Thank you again! ^_^**  
**~Jen**


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